


Codeword: None

by plumedy



Category: Murder Rooms: The Dark Beginnings of Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Canon - TV, Coda, Episode Related, Episode: s01e04 The White Knight Stratagem, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Present Tense, Trust Issues, everyone has them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:24:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumedy/pseuds/plumedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Are you sure you've come to the right man?..</i>
</p><p>Of course he's sure; even if some of the more disputable of Bell's ideas are eerie rather than insane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Codeword: None

**Author's Note:**

> More episode code, and I will go down with this fandom! Also, cranberry biscuits.

“What,” for emphasis I wave the file in front of him, “on earth does it mean?”

He eyes me cautiously, as if afraid that I’ll hit him with it, and moves the plate of cranberry biscuits up to me.

“You’ve been familiar with this work for years, you have to understand. It was a safety precaution.”

“But did you seriously consider the possibility?”

“I-“ for a moment he seems to believe that he can find a gesture that would be a sufficient explanation, but then thinks better of it, “no. Not in this case, no. I knew you wouldn’t.”

 “The implication being that this is _not_ the only one?”

“Don’t you see, Doyle: it was the same with Blaney. O, you can be sure that outwardly he would be incensed if he saw-“ he doesn’t answer my question, and yet in the way his voice changes I can hear the “yes” as clearly as if it were spoken aloud.

“But I am not Blaney. You could barely stand each other; I, on the contrary – by a twist of fate I still wonder at – happen to be your friend.”

The Doctor stares at his tea, from the surface of which steam is rising to dissolve in the cold gloom. Here and there on the table are long stretches of blue gaslight.

“The best I’ve ever had,” then he raises his head to look at me, his eyes bright and anxious. “I would never allow them to arrest you, not ever. It may sound odd, but there are still ways to smuggle people out of the country through the Highlands; as a forensic consultant, I am familiar with the practice, and you could always count on me to arrange that.” He makes a swift sweeping gesture: “It might even not be necessary. Setting another man up would never do; still, this is not the only option – certainly I could make it look as though it were done by a person unknown or a prison escapee, of whom there are plenty.”

The notion would be but ridiculous to anyone who isn’t familiar with the Doctor’s ways; I, however, know at once that every single word of it is true. More than that, there is a kind of cold logic to the “safety precaution” he took.

At the same time, the rule of trusting no one is inconsistent with his extraordinary alacrity to rescue me even if I betray both him and our cause (especially since he seems to have no clue that of the two it is the first one that matters). It is behind this apparent contradiction that I sense something that takes my breath away; undoubtedly he did me a great injustice, but now I can hardly bring myself to care about anything other than that sheer crushing, devastating loneliness it is unthinkable to live with.

 “That you could outwit them any time I do not doubt,” I tell him, careful not to let it become evident that I can’t find it in my heart to be angry at him, “though in theory it is a grave criminal offence.”

“I’m aware of that, ay,” he responds dryly. It fails to scare me.

I lay the file down – now he can see what he has already guessed: it is opened in the middle, and on the fine clean paper there’s a network of names in the unmistakable flowing handwriting, some of them connected by arrows; closer to the right upper corner, next to Blaney’s, there’s mine. A small column titled “possible motives” reads:

C. A. Doyle&Isadora Blaney

could be certain that no further murders ensue

found out and was in turmoil

blames me for C. (know to be true)

“It is wrong.” I finish the biscuit and move the file away.

“What is?”

“The one in parentheses.”

“Ah.”

“Well, everything else, too, but this one in particular.”

Half-seriously I fear that one day I will find his own name on his list of suspects.


End file.
